Man Possessed
by Fellowshipper
Summary: After M-Day/Decimation, Bobby Drake goes looking for an old teammate who's definitely seen better days. He's armed with an offer to help, but is he willing to offer the kind of help that Jonothon Starsmore is looking for? One Shot.


_**Continuity note:** After Decimation. Jono is in New York, after rejecting Pete Wisdom's offer to join Excalibur, but before being found by Jubilee and offered a spot with the New Warriors._

It had become something of a cottage industry among the nightclub scene, especially in large cities, to offer locales that catered specifically to mutants. One of the first such establishments was Haven in New York City, a goth club that, not surprisingly, made the adjustment with minimal effort. It had been so successful, in fact, that it had manifestations across the country: Haven LA, Haven Chicago, Haven Miami and half a dozen others, but Haven NYC was the undisputed heart.

Bobby Drake hated it.

Sure, he was all for solidarity; as one of the original X-Men, he had a keen appreciation for human-mutant coexistence in any form. But he hated this place, or as much as he could when he knew it only through press coverage and word of mouth. Maybe it was just the whole club scene as a whole. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, he considered himself enough of an adult to shun the obvious marks of rebellious youth. Of course, when it came down to it he had to admit that he was a dweeb who preferred watching sitcom reruns on the couch to stepping out in public and risk meeting the latest villain of the month, as was wont to happen _every_ time he walked outside.

Maybe it was the garish lighting, the pounding techno music, the vaguely androgynous inhabitants, but Bobby really, _really_ didn't like Haven.

He pushed his way through the crowd, narrowly avoiding an elbow to the face at one point. A young girl with pink and purple hair and a face full of piercings turned to look at him, shrugged an apology, and went back to dancing. Tempted as he was to say something, he just shook his head and kept going. "Eyes on the prize," he told himself as he neared the bar.

The "prize" stood behind the bar, arms folded over his chest as he stared out over the crowd, obviously bored. Everything about his overall appearance had changed, but there was no mistaking that stance that clearly conveyed the message he thought the world owed him a favor. Maybe it did. The world had taken much from Jonothon Starsmore in a mere twenty-one years, so that sense of entitlement was likely well warranted.

Still, Bobby froze at the edge of the dance floor when he got his first good look at the young man. He had two very distinct images of Jono in his head. The first, and the one he had foolishly been halfway expecting, was of the pale, gawky figure shrouded in black leather and straps wound around half his face. The second portrait, the one Bobby had attempted to drink away after it emblazoned itself in his mind after a single exposure, was of Jono's devastated carcass with tubes running into the giant cavity in his chest and face. Bobby had visited Jono in the hospital once; once, it turned out, had been enough, because although he promised himself he would go back, he could never remove the haunting picture of that tortured body from his mind long enough to make good on that oath.

This Jono, though, with skin the color of wet cement and stark red eyes that could be seen even from several feet away, was not what he had anticipated. Sure, he'd been told about Apocalypse, something-something, abduction from the hospital, other details. When he thought about it, he remembered even being given a brief rundown of Jono's altered appearance for identification purposes, and those details all proved true. But "red eyes, gray skin, purple facial markings" all were nothing but words on a page; when confronted with the real thing, Bobby was at a loss. He studied Jono's profile as he looked down the bar, stomach turning to see the distinctive purple lines along his jaw and the abnormally protruding lips. Those words on the page had never properly convinced him that Jono would look like a younger, smaller version of . . . _him_.

He stepped closer to the bar, waiting patiently until Jono turned to look the other way and caught his eye. Startled at first, Jono quickly recovered and walked over to him, leaning casually on the bar.

"Can I help you?"

Bobby started at the familiar and yet strange voice. It was Jono's, no doubt about it; he had the same rough accent as always. Somehow the voice was different now, though. Stronger, it seemed, not as grating and raspy as his telepathic voice had been. This, Bobby realized, must have been what Jono sounded like years earlier, before his powers emerged. He gulped. "Nice to see you, too, Jono."

Jono's back straightened reflexively. "Well, if not, I'm gonna go wait on another—"

"Don't act like you don't know me."

"I'm trying to work here, mate."

Bobby laughed softly, gesturing to both ends of the bar. "I'm the only one ordering anything. I think you can take a break for a few minutes."

"Go on, Jon, I'll cover until you get back," another bartender called. Jono flashed him a look somewhere between gratitude and hatred, then finally nodded and stepped out from behind the bar. Bobby followed him through a maze of tables until they walked through a swinging door, and then down a hallway blindingly bright with its standard fluorescent ceiling lights after the dim lighting in the rest of the building. A plain wooden door was opened to reveal a room full of crates and a few discarded chairs.

"I'm not planning on interrogating you," Bobby offered mildly, glancing around the storage room. "Unless you've got a pair of pliers and some bamboo back here somewhere."

"What do you want, Drake?" Jono asked abruptly, assuming his usual stance against the wall with one leg bent behind him and his arms crossed. Bobby had to admit that he at least looked slightly more menacing with the drastically changed looks.

"To talk." Bobby found a green rolling chair that appeared to have been badly mistreated over the years, so much so that when he sat in it he nearly toppled over sideways. Carefully righting himself, he dared another glance up at Jono. "You don't strike me as the bartender type."

"I mostly work back here. I'm just covering for the girl who normally bartends on Saturdays. She's sick."

"Oh."

"But you didn't come here to chat." Jono dug through the pockets of his ubiquitous leather jacket; at least that was one thing that hadn't changed. He produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one with a speed and ease that came only through long experience. As he exhaled the first drag, he quirked an eyebrow at Bobby. "So how'd you find me?"

"Threw some chicken bones in a pot," he answered smoothly, cautiously shifting in his seat. "Actually, Jubilee said you liked to come here. Figured it was as likely a hideout as any."

"Can't say I'm surprised, though I am at least impressed they managed to wait almost an entire month before sending another evangelist after me. Still, my answer's not changed. Whatever your spiel is to get me back into the wonderful world of mutant adventurers, save it. I'm not interested."

"Jonothon, come on . . . "

"No."

"We can help you!"

Jono snorted, rolling his eyes as he blew out a long stream of smoke. "I think you lot have done quite enough, thanks. S'just been one fucking mess after another with you people, each one a little worse than the last, and I've had it. I'm done. I don't want your _help_ anymore."

And apparently the attitude hadn't changed either. Bobby sighed quietly, watching the repetition of Jono's hand moving from his side to his mouth then back down, over and over again as the cigarette slowly disappeared. No doubt Jono did not intend to waste a second smoke to indulge Bobby in idle conversation.

"It's not just about you, man," he tried, taking the universal approach that always seemed to work so well for Scott in his recruiting speeches. "There are some seriously screwed up people out there who wanna see us dead. We could use your help."

Bobby expected a rant, a yell, even maybe a nonverbal answer that came in the form of Jono hurling the nearest heavy object at his head. Instead, he received a disinterested flick of the hand holding the cigarette and a simple, "Don't care." Irritated now, Bobby could feel ice crystals forming on the back of his neck.

"You can't just turn your back on the world, Jono."

Perhaps, he realized too late, that had been the wrong thing to say. Jono eyed him coldly, his voice going low and quiet. "The world's had no problem turning its back on me, though. Repeatedly, even. That pretty well sums up the whole cheery X-Men existence, don't it? We keep getting slaughtered or turned into . . . " He trailed off, making a disgusted hand motion toward his chest. "And the bad guys just keep going. Don't you get it, Bobby? We're not winning, we're never _going_ to win. All we can do is survive, and some of us do a right piss-poor job of that."

"You know, for someone barely old enough to drink, that's an awfully damn cynical perspective."

"I'm English," Jono answered with a wry grin. He continued working on the cigarette in silence for several long moments before issuing a sigh betraying a weariness far beyond his years. "I'm tired, Bobby. I've seen too many good people suffer, lost too many friends, while the bastards what did it are still going strong, and I can't . . . I can't do it anymore."

Bobby at last had to stand up. This was too much. "What, you think I've never lost anyone? That I never get tired of this? That's the difference between us, Jono. You won't grow up and take responsibility. No, you didn't ask for it, and no, it's not fair that it's put on your shoulders, but it's there anyway and you'd damn well better do something about it."

Shaking his head, Jono let out a short laugh. "Listen to yourself, mate. They churning out clones in Westchester now? You're starting to sound just like the rest of them. You don't think for yourself, you just spew out the same old tired lines and yet nothing ever changes. Don't they say that's a sign of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results each time?" He took a menacing step away from the wall, blatantly letting the cigarette smoke drift across Bobby's face. "Do those nicely packaged speeches help you sleep at night? Do you deliver them at your friends' graves when your precious 'dream' joke fails them, too?"

Despite the sudden urge to punch Jono's newly formed face in, Bobby clenched his teeth and took several deep, calming breaths. "I'm not asking you to join any team. Hell, no one else even knows I'm here except Jubilee. I'm only here because for all our differences, you still seemed like a good kid when you were at the school and I want to help you. So does everyone else."

"Tell them they can make a monetary donation if they wanna help me so bloody bad."

At some point in this conversation, Bobby realized, punches would be thrown. Perhaps a different approach was needed.

"Jono," he started quietly, "he's going to come for you eventually. Apocalypse, I mean. We all know that. And I know you're powerful, but you don't stand a chance against him. None of us does, not on our own."

"And I'm the cynical one here? What's it matter where I stay in the meantime, then? Whether I'm rescuing kittens from trees or passed out on the floor after a three-day bender, it's all just gonna end the same way. So why not let me be until then?"

Bobby sighed, his will to argue quickly fading. "I feel like this is where I should give the 'but you've got so much to live for' speech."

"Please don't, you'll only embarrass both of us. Look, Bobby, I've got _nothing_, okay? Everything I cared about, everything, it's all fucked. I don't have anyone to blame but myself so I'm not looking for pity. I'm just being honest. I've got nothing to lose anymore, _nothing_, so why shouldn't I do whatever the hell I feel like doing and damn the consequences? Not like I have to fear for my immortal soul anymore." With the cigarette finished, Jono dropped the butt into a nearby trash can, lit another, and settled backwards into a chair, arms draped over the back as he pushed his hand through his unruly dark hair. "My parents were religious. Well, I guess they were, anyway. Weren't around much, so it was mostly the nannies and such who dragged me to church all the time. Through all this shit I've always been able to deal with it 'cause it was just physical. I was still _me_ inside, you know? Sure, losing half my body made me bitchier, but I was mostly the same person I'd always been. But now, it's like . . . I can feel myself changing. I'm turning into him and I can't stop it."

"Jono . . . "

But Jono held out a hand for silence, continuing his monologue as though Bobby had not interrupted at all. "Assuming he doesn't, I don't know, fuse with me somehow like he did with Cyclops, I've got an even worse fate: I'm going to _be_ him. Even if someone manages to take him out somehow, he'll live on through me. Tell me, what the bloody hell kind of existence is that? That's worse than death, far worse. So you're right, Drake, I guess I do need your help." Bobby looked up, certain this was where Jono had talked himself into finally accepting his aid. "I need you to promise me that before it goes too far, before that bastard has a chance to use me for whatever plans he might have, I need you to promise to kill me."

That . . . was not what Bobby had been expecting, which left him able only to answer with a meek, "What?"

"It doesn't have to be you," Jono continued quickly, red eyes taking on an eerie zeal. "It can be anyone. But before I lose myself completely. It's the only way to get back at him for doing this to me in the first place."

"Hey, look, you don't have to . . . I mean, don't go there, okay? Don't even go there," Bobby finally blurted, massaging the bridge of his nose to prevent an oncoming migraine. "Come back with me. Hank's been dying to get a sample and run some DNA tests to see if it can be reversed – not just for you, but for any other mutants Apocalypse might be planning on turning. We can do it now before—"

"Before what, Bobby? Before I turn out to be some sort of bloody sleeper cell who goes on a killing spree and, oh, surprise, turns out to be invincible? Xavier's rehab programs don't have a great success rate. Magneto ring any bells, mate?" He shook his head and laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that made the hairs rise along Bobby's arms. "It's a simple promise, Bobby."

"I'm really bad with promises, though . . . "

"I'm serious. If you or anyone else in Xavier's fan club were ever honest about giving a damn about me at all, please. I need to know you're ready."

Forgetting for a moment the chair's precarious structure, Bobby leaned back but managed to right himself before turning over again. That would not do well for his intimidation factor. "Alright, so if you're so hell-bent on being killed, why not do it yourself and be done with it?"

With a wry grin, Jono drew slightly closer. "Unforgivable sin and all that. Besides," he continued, keeping the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he pulled up his left sleeve, revealing long, faded scars racing along from elbow to wrist, "I don't bleed right anymore." He dropped the sleeve, casually getting to his feet again and taking a long drag from the cigarette, the burning tip closely matching the shade of his eyes. "Please, Bobby."

"If it gets to that point . . . " But Bobby's voice failed him. The words were there; he could feel them tripping along his tongue, swimming before him and refusing to budge.

"Say it. Say you'll see to it that I'm killed before it goes too far."

"I can't."

"I won't become him, Bobby," Jono pleaded his case again, this time gripping the arms of Bobby's chair and leaning over him, a very nearly desperate look twisting his face. "I can't live like that, knowing what he is, what he's done . . . what he'll turn me into."

"Were your parents Catholic, by any chance? Jewish, maybe? You've got the whole guilt complex down pat."

Not in the least distracted by Bobby's lame attempt at humor and the equally transparent attempt to change the subject, Jono leaned in closer. "Say it, Drake."

"If . . . if it comes down to it, I'll . . . I'll see to it that you're killed."

The desperation seemed to vanish from Jono's face in an instant, replaced instead with a curious calm. He stepped back to lean against the wall, nodding once in acknowledgment. "Thank you."

Shaken, Bobby rose to his feet, hiding his trembling hands in the pockets of his long coat. "I'm not giving up on you, Jono. Not when I don't think you've given up on yourself yet."

"There's not much left of me to give up on, mate, and what _is_ there gets less and less every day."

Oblivious to the protest, Bobby went on. "I know you're not asking or looking for a savior, but I promise – I'll help you save yourself."

Jono grinned, a portion of his earlier desperation returning. "You just said you're bad with promises."

"Yeah," Bobby agreed as he opened the door to step out into the hallway. "But sometimes I actually manage to keep them."

He walked away without waiting for a response.


End file.
